Saddle Bag Tool Kit

Back in the day when the saddle was my throne.

Twas my horse essential tool kit, it needed a home.

In a world out of comfort zone to the total unknown

In my jackaroo job riverina "Station Gundaline"

A long way, the year it was nineteen sixty nine.

Items, spare rein, quart pot & skin protection line

The saddle bag there it was made specially for me.

The same quart pot I claimed I found under a tree.

Many a time, many miles out, over a fire, a black tea.

A return to the station in 2013.

Just Billy and me on a passing visit bought back the memories.

The killing shed and meat house were totally overgrown and certainly not used in many years.

The sheds were all empty of the sulky and harness and workshop gear which were bustling in 1969

Incredibly the service records of the vehicles we had at the station in 1969 were still on the chalk board in the oil shed, some nearly 50 years later.

The long yard where the horses bustled early morning are clearly overgrown and falling down.

Once the property was sold to irrigation interests none of the above would have been required.

Some of the pictures captured in 2013 tell part of the story below.

The time was the last of the company pastoral days where labour was cheap, traditions were deep, sheep and wool were king and Jackaroos were a dispensable lower order item.

We were required to dress for evening meal.

We asked permission to leave the property.

Our nearest water hole was "Carrathool" pub, long since burnt down replaced.

Nearest big town was "Hay" where we drank at the 'Wheragery Club'

In order of seniority the station had a staff of:

Manager.

Overseer.

Middle station manager.

Back station manager.

Irrigation manager.

Cook.

Cowboy gardener.

Jackaroos.Around 6 at any one time.

Dropped off by Mum and Dad, with my two dogs and a suitcase, I checked the new scene out.

The overseer came up with the comment " you had better say good bye to you parents, you may never see them again" and with that they drove away to leave me in my first paying job of work.

First job was to be 'Cowboy' which entailed butchering the stations weekly meat supply.

My experience was very light on, none the less I preceded as if I knew it all.

One hour later, one very unrecognisable carcass was delivered to the meathouse.

The manager with the general manager in tow dropped in to inspect with the comment:

"Bit rough around the edges" and by the way "Where are the other five"

Mode of transport for jackaroos around the property of 64,000 acres was pretty much horse back.

We did have a sulky, which we called a 'Gig' It had Holden rims with rubber wheels.

The night before we would draw straws as to who would be lucky enough to score the gig for the days work. Two draft horses by the names of 'Tiger' and 'Bill' were sulky trained.

By the end of my time at Gundaline I was able in the pitch dark to harness a horse to the sulky.

Indeed a privilege to experience such a skill just before they faded into pastoral history forever .

The horses, about 30 in use at one time, were yarded with the night horse, at first light by jackaroos taking weekly turns to get up early to have them ready for the days work.

Horses were allocated to each person and if you didn't care for your horse or mistreated them in any way, you were reallocated with another from the bottom of the mob.

Most likely, the roughest ride, a 'pig rooter' or a biter, you soon learnt to respect your animals in your care.

Vehicles fleet was minimal and were mostly not accessed by jackaroos

The boss drove a Ford 100

The balance included a Fergy tractor, a land Rover, a Ford stock truck and later on a mini moke as well as a small bike for the flood bay irrigation from the Murrumbidgee.

The station almost didn't have a fergy tractor after I accidentally let it roll into a rising river bed.

There was lots of yelling and glaring from management in the retrieval project but it eventually subsided and I still kept my job. After all how was I to know the hand/foot break had never worked.

For some reason there were no rainwater tanks, all homestead water was pumped directly from the river. This can take some adjustment for new chum stomach,and in my case 10 days of frequent visits to the dunny,until all was well.

Hot water to the entire homestead complex was a wood fired heater which was called 'The Donkey'

No wood, No fire, No hot water !

No need to guess who manned the 'Donkey'.............the lowly jackaroo on a week around basis.

So wood cutting duty was never ending as well as repetitively boring, unless of course, you trim two fingers and stripping the little finger of flesh of the bone.

The result was workers comp claim pushed by the boss who was thrilled to get some money back from many years of paying workers compensation.

The result for myself was a source of funding to purchase my first car, a Fiat 1500 for $850.

The donkey finger funded well, but it did hurt a trifle in the bone cutting and sewing up.

I can still hear the operating Dr complaining under his breath why he still had 'blunt bone cutters'

Certainly my $80 a month wages would leave me a smidgen short to rely on.

It was here that I opened the mail to read that :

"My name and birthday date had not been included in the random Vietnam conscription process"

I was surprised that I was both pleased and disappointed not to be called up for national service.

After all, we did have a family history of my Grandfather in WW1 and Dad in WW11 and I had mentally prepared my self to face whatever unknown I was about to face in Vietnam.

Alternatively I was quite pleased that I would not be in the sights of some bloke trying to shoot me.

No question though that Mum and Dad were more than happy with that outcome.